


Atlas

by urkellinme (sup3rloki)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Post-War, M/M, guitarist!harry, poet!draco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-05 12:52:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11013807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sup3rloki/pseuds/urkellinme
Summary: The whole situation wouldn't have been so bloody difficult if Draco didn't wear his heart on his sleeve—on his goddamnchest pocket, and had made it terribly easy for Pansy to see right through him.post-war modern drarry au. harry plays guitar and draco writes poetry. one is shunned from the wizarding world, the other from his own family. one too many awful twists of fate and more magic than intended later, something ensues.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello there!!
> 
> i had posted this once before, but elected to change some elements and rewrite a bit and figure out what i actually wanted to happen in the story. so yeah, here it is, again haha. hope you like it :-)

His nail beds are always blue.

In plain sight, this was the only peculiarity about Harry Potter. Never mind the lightning-shaped scar; muggles would always ask if he was cold despite the 28o weather. He had taken to painting his nails black to avoid the inevitable questions. It’s what he does on those rare Saturday nights when he just can’t fall asleep.

Like tonight, for instance.

He’s done everything: he’s rearranged his bookshelves maybe thrice, and alphabetised his encyclopaedias twice, for good measure. He’s cleaned Merlin, his ratty acoustic, down to its knobs and in between the strings. He’s finished jotting down a riff that’s been bothering him for Godric knows how long (and cleaned Merlin again afterwards, of course). Well, if anything’s gonna put him to sleep, it’s going to be coffee.

A quick rummage through his cupboards proved that he hadn’t any left. He sighed to himself and to his empty flat. This meant having to go _outside_ , and having to go outside meant putting on clothes other than golden snitch boxers and a _Bulgaria!_ T-shirt with a couple of holes near the neckline. Nevertheless, he pulled on a white v-neck and black skinnies, and shrugged on a black trench.

Later on, he’s trekking the seedier part of London, hands deep in his coat pockets. He could’ve apparated, sure, but he didn’t mind walking at all and it helped kill a bit of time.

He inspected the town map briefly, and found that there was a café not far from where he stood. A few minutes of lazy walking merited him a slight sniff and, of course, the blue nail beds. But more importantly, the welcoming heat and constant chatter streaming off of Teddy’s Coffee Shop.

It was much different from Morgana’s, from what he can remember. But that doesn’t matter.

The queue moved quickly, and a minute and a half later he’s sat alone at a table for two. He nursed a steaming cup of coffee between cold palms, blued fingers. He blew a crater onto the carefully crafted leaf pattern on the surface, and gratefully caught a waft of cinnamon and milk and sugar.

And then, his voice. He hadn’t realised that muggles frequented these places for things other than coffee, but now, he could quite clearly understand why.

Most of the audience’s attention singled out on one person, situated on a makeshift stage, who glowed effervescently under fluorescent light. There stood Draco Malfoy, reading aloud poetry he seemed to have written. He stood decked out in skinny jeans and an ill-fitting shirt, shoulders clad in a tattered cardigan that seemed to hang off his slim frame. Most of his ice blond hair was tucked into a hole-y beanie, and what’s left of his fringe feathered over his eyes, tangling into his eyelashes.

This was definitely tangential to the way he dressed the last time Harry saw him. Gone were the finely tailored suits, nor the perfectly slicked back hair. And he didn’t seem to be carrying that stupid cane around, anymore, either.

Harry was put off. It was decidedly odd, hearing Malfoy speaking of planets aligning for an ebbing tide, instead of hurling smart-aleck insults at Harry or anybody else. His features arranged into a frown—not terribly alien to one Draco Malfoy, but it no longer held the familiar vitriol, from where Harry sat. Instead, the expression appeared to be a result of his impassioned reading, the weight of the words conveyed even through his features.

It was still decidedly odd, he thought, that of all people he could have run into in this area, it was _Malfoy_. And in a _muggle_ café, of all places. The Malfoys had always been firm on their opinion of muggles, and were often vocal of it, as well. Harry looked down into his cup, realising that he had been staring at Malfoy the entire time. _Filthy mudblood_ , Malfoy’s voice held equal amounts of venom and spite, even in a memory from 10 years ago. Harry’s fingers curled around the cup further at the thought, how upset Hermione had been.

Hermione. He shook his head, clearing his mind of the thought of her.

So, yes, it was odd to catch Malfoy in a muggle café. Had his life rundown so terribly that he resorted to living and working in muggle London, a faction he used to openly despise? Harry supposes it was the case; it had been talk for a while that he had gone into hiding somewhere else in Europe after Lucius had apparently disowned him. Harry was taken into the ministry after that, having to witness against him. Draco and Narcissa had been written off clean, but because of a personal grudge (and, admittedly, an immature-18-year-old move on his part), he had testified that Lucius was trusted by Lord Voldemort like a brother and probably had plans on continuing the Dark Lord’s legacy. And so, he was thrown into Azkaban.

The disowning part, Harry hadn’t heard so much of it. He barely had the time to look into it, anyway.

Harry looked up and eyed Malfoy curiously. It felt so _weird_ to Harry, looking at Malfoy and thinking of warmth instead of cold cellars in the Manor, hearing pieces on friendship instead of enmity.

Then, their eyes met.

For a second, Malfoy looked panicked, losing his momentum and tumbling over a few words. Then, his grey eyes went cold, like he had just seen a Dementor. Then, finally, he collected his bearings and laughed a little, repeating the stanza that he was on.

Harry wished he’d gotten his coffee in a to-go cup instead. It had gone cold from his reverie.

Malfoy said something about the next poem being the last, and Harry pursed his lips.

Of course Malfoy would still be upset with him. If not for the war, then maybe for the years of animosity. If not for that, then maybe for throwing his Father under the bus. If not for that, then maybe ridding them of three-quarters of the contents of their vault. Granted, Harry wasn’t personally responsible for that. But he did have a hand in it, one way or another.

Malfoy’s last poem had been a doozy. He had spoken faster than he had been the rest of his set, obviously looking to end it quickly. When it had, he had disappeared immediately, even before the applause died out. Harry hadn’t touched his coffee at all.

He decided to call it a night, mentally exhausted from the flurry of thoughts and memories, with little bidding on the coffee. He purchased another coffee to take away and asked the barista for a pen, if he had one, mate. He started scribbling down what he can remember from Malfoy’s last poem, and kept it in his coat pocket, for safekeeping.

By 12:30, he had already gotten back to his flat. By 12:45, he had downed his take away coffee. By 1, he had taken a hot shower and had changed into his usual golden snitch pants and _Bulgaria!_ tee.

He took a minute or two to think over what had happened in the past couple hours. Of course Malfoy would still be upset with him. Harry, however, wasn’t as much. He no longer felt the same anger whenever he saw Malfoy that he would have maybe 5 years ago, the same way that he no longer felt the same happiness that vibrated into his fingertips when he stayed over at the Burrow. He’d never gone there again, after the war. He no longer felt as much, full stop.

Tonight, though, a sadness flared in his chest as he caught some parts of Malfoy’s poetry. He toed at his trench at the foot of his bed, using his leg to bring it to his hands. He fumbled for the crumpled piece of paper somewhere in the pockets. Once he found it, he tossed the coat to the floor and unfolded the paper. 

            _down my arms, a thousand satellites_

_suddenly discover signs of life_

Harry had never been one for poetry. Not when he was a kid and had to memorise some for class, not when he was in Hogwarts and he’d received the odd love note which were often written in haiku format. Not even when the war ended and he had gotten into writing music—music was never poetry to him. But those two lines made him frown for longer than he intended, the implied meaning burning unintentionally.

He had turned the heat all the way up, but his hands felt cold. But, by 1:10, however, he was asleep.

—

It was hard not to notice him in the crowd.

For a moment, no words would come out of his mouth. Just air and perhaps a slight quiver. He laughed a bit, and went on. Admittedly, he had always been caught off-guard by Potter, even when they were younger (though, it was much easier to put up a scowl). Mind, he did have always an endearing aspect that annoyed the living pixies out of Draco. He could never seem to place just what Potter was thinking, what he was going to do next. So much so, that he had probably scribbled a couple of poems down on parchment set aside for homework to fathom just how frustrating it was, Potter’s unpredictability. 

He looked quite different.

No more boyish charm that glinted off the rounded spectacles he always wore. No more gleaming green eyes (in place were more intense, almost mossy ones), nor bright red monogrammed sweaters. Instead, he looked like someone out of an updated James Dean movie, with the pale pink lips and chipped black nail lacquer and wild curly hair that brushed his shoulders. It was different, but he hadn’t quite decided if it was bad.

Ultimately, there was still a strong dislike for him. Although, a more obligated hate, much more on his father’s behalf.

Well, you know what, fuck Lucius Malfoy.

Granted, had he not gone into exile after being ripped of his family name by his own father, then he wouldn’t have had cultivated his love for poetry in France. His conversational French was awful, he was sure, but his poetry was nice, at the least.

As the night progressed, he tried and failed to keep his gaze off of Potter. He could no longer focus solely on the words he read, maybe because he could see in his periphery the way Potter bites his nails as if he’s contemplating the way his coffee looks. Or maybe because he’s too aware of how he’s stood—had he always stooped like this? Had his feet always stuck out in that angle?

Whatever effect Potter’s presence had on him, he didn’t like it.

For what seemed like forever, his set finally concluded. He would usually stick around for a free cuppa and chat with the audience some, but he just really needed to lie down or maybe lay it down right now. He collected his fee from Teddy and went on his way, perhaps stepping on the ground a bit harder than usual.

What was he so upset about? That Potter was there, seemingly watching him? Potter frowning up at him? Perhaps, guilt. Salazar, he really needed to let go what childish feud they had way back when. He wondered, though, how had Potter been doing after banishing himself into self-exile. They had probably gone at the same time, right around the time his father had disowned him, and when Granger had put out that article about Harry Potter and the Great Destruction of Everything.

Everyone had lost something or someone or the other because of the war. But, he supposes that it was quite unfair to put the blame on Potter alone.

He let some chamomile steep for a bit. While he poured stale water out of a used glass, he realised. Potter had seen him performing. Had seen him performing in a _muggle_ café. He set the glass down and pinched the bridge of his nose.

It wasn’t as if he cared about what Potter thought, but he understood how jarring it would be to see someone so formerly opposed to all things muggle actually interact and immerse himself in this world. How hypocritical to the pedestrian eye, he agreed, it would be to see this take place.

He certainly didn’t need to explain himself to Potter, even if he had the chance. He didn’t need to explain that muggle Paris had been wonderful and beautiful, perhaps even more so than any wizarding place he had ever been. That, when he had gotten back on his feet and made enough income to come back to England, the flat he rented out in muggle London was more home than what the Manor ever was. That the sweet old lady that owned the complex he lived in was too patient, too understanding, too tolerant for having shown him around the town they resided in, and sat with him through telly marathons of old James Dean films.

He brewed himself another cuppa, maybe two. Put on the telly. Changed into flannel pyjamas and untucked his hair from his bonnet. He doesn’t fall asleep, though, even when the telly started playing reruns of the old Doctor. Instead, he pulls up his old steno and jotted down something about cacti growing flowers in the heat of the moment.

Then, days go by. But, for some mortifying reason, he keeps seeing moss green and faint, glowing cracks under his fingertips in his dreams.

—

Pansy rung him one Thursday (yes, on an actual muggle phone), a welcome distraction from the odd feeling that tugged on his shirtsleeves whenever he looked at his houseplant. She launched into a ramble about overpriced Firewhisky down at Knockturn and how England hadn’t qualified for the World Cup _yet again_ and Draco, if you will please listen to me, I can hear you not caring.

“Apologies, Pans. What were you saying?” he ran slinky fingers through his fringe, and put the kettle on the stove to boil. “I was simply asking if the great Draco Malfoy, almighty wordsmith, would care to join my girlfriend and I to the Next Day Term.” He could almost quite clearly hear the way her eyes rolled.

“Girlfriend!” Draco exclaimed incredulously, with a bit of a chuckle. “Who knew it would only take one Luna Lovegood to tie you down, Pans,” he could hear her take a breath, as if about to rain some expletives on him, “Never the matter. Where’s that and when do we go?”

“It’s not far from you. Luna goes there all the time. We’ll pick you up tonight around 8, yeah?” And that was that. Draco hadn’t realised that it was already well into the afternoon, maybe about 3 PM. While his tea brewed, he jumped into the shower. While the kettle whistled, he was pulling on pants. While he poured himself a cuppa, he used a plate of biscuits to hold open an old poetry volume.

He wasted the afternoon and some of the evening on his balcony, reading and re-reading Neruda and his masterpieces. If he found anything remarkable, he would have pressed a flower between the pages (and this would explain why his little garden is balding and why the book has doubled in thickness). He hadn’t realised it was already 7:45 until his tea had gone cold.

He quickly pulled on a fitted T-shirt and cut-off jeans, throwing on his favourite cardigan. As he slipped on his last shoe, the door to his flat swung open, giving way to bobbed black hair and dirty blonde waves. Just on time, he thought.

“It’s ghastly, Draco, truly,” Pansy Parkinson entered his flat with an air of ownership. Luna Lovegood trailed behind her, ditzy and beautiful. She paused to kiss Draco’s cheek, which made him smile. “That you could look so good in muggle clothing.” Pansy collected Draco into a hug, ruffling his hair in the process.

“Don’t worry, Draco. She’s just jealous ‘cause she had a hard time at the department store today.”

“You would reckon I’d know how muggle sizes went. It was a bloody disaster!”

Draco shook his head at the both of them. He hadn’t realised that whatever was going on between the lot of them was so serious that Pansy was willing to sacrifice a different lover every night for Luna. A great deal of martyrdom, that one.

Once he had gathered his wallet and keys and cellphone, they all piled out of the flat, down the lift, and into London streets. It wasn’t the best real estate, but it was what Draco could afford with the combined effort of what he had left and what he had made. His mother would probably turn up her nose at it. The three of them argued about taking a cab or just walking, but for the love of Salazar, Pansy, it’s only a five minute walk ( _grow some ovaries!_ ).

It was cold enough that their breaths frosted, but warm enough that they didn’t catch frostbite.

When they checked in their coats, Luna snickered something about the turn out being not nearly as large as it usually was on any other Thursday night. Word was that the usual performer had called in sick, and they had to replace him with a less-liked substitute.

He’d noted the way people in the crowd were dressed—some just like him, some who didn’t bother checking in their coats, some in plain ol’ t-shirts and jeans, and some that nursed a cup of tea rather than a bottle of beer. They occupied a table somewhere near the front beside a loner in a white v-neck, whose long hair was tied back in a loose ponytail. Draco scoffed in the back of his throat. He can tell why Luna frequented this place.

The guitarist was performing a rather bland instrumental. Though Draco was a nut when it came to music, he knew good from bad and this was definitely the latter. No one besides the guy next to them appeared to be listening to the man on stage.

“I’m just as disappointed as you are,” Luna’s voice startled him out of his thoughts, “I was hoping we would catch him tonight.”

Draco smiled softly. “I don’t even know what I was expecting.” Then, they both looked away. His eyebrow twitched a little; what had Luna meant by _him_?

He sat back and sipped on his pint, admiring the faint neon glow about everything in the pub. Some odd paintings hung in odd corners, some odd piping which seem to have been placed haphazardly, pumped effervescent pink liquid up and down. Neon signs hung elsewhere; there was a prevalent neon theme here. If he stared in one corner for longer than a minute, his head started to hurt.

The stranger’s white v-neck seemed to glow under all of the black lights as well.

And then, an audible click.

Then, another look at the stranger who turned out to be no stranger at all.

—

Harry always felt the heat of a stare of one Draco Malfoy. Be it when they were children having a silent competition of out-glaring the other, or now, 22 years old in a muggle pub. He had a slight panic attack when their trio chose to sit beside him. Luna had nodded and smiled in his direction, and he raised his mug in acknowledgement.

He had hoped that he wouldn’t notice his presence. After all, his replacement was playing worse than rubbish and could have easily deafened or blinded anyone in the immediate vicinity. He wonders where the NDT lot picked him up from.

But, what Harry couldn’t seem to wrap his mind around was that the world and others had seemed to conspire to allow things to happen that lead to him seeing Malfoy in muggle London, and not even a week later see him again. Maybe if he consulted his old knowledge of Divination or maybe even Astronomy, he’d have an explanation.

He wonders, now, why he had elected not to perform tonight.

First, it was a headache, and not getting to practice on a new piece he’s worked on for a while now. Second, it was his fingers cramping, and being incapable of so much as picking Merlin up from his stand. And third, it was the overwhelming feeling of _don’t go to the pub tonight_. The third, though more abstract, had proved to be a more plausible cause.

Perhaps, it was the shame of getting caught by someone from his other world in his new world, in his new niche. Luna was no problem—they were already good friends back then, and she even got him this gig. Parkinson was about as irrelevant as anything, really. And Malfoy, well, he’s Malfoy. It shouldn’t matter, should it? They’re different people now. Certainly more mature than they were. Years of hostility aside, he was just another wizard that got caught in the war.

But then again, all of them were sort of forced to grow up in one way or another.

The awful guitarist’s set was finally done, and no one had clapped, and a post-folk band started setting up in his wake. They played well, but Harry never really took to a liking to their music. He left his tea untouched and took refuge outside.

Meanwhile, Pansy and Luna bid farewell to Draco. They had decided that it wasn’t well worth it to stick around the pub, and offered to bring him home. He refused, and go have fun, you little lovebirds. They kissed him good night and went off. He decided some air would be good—yes, it would.

Harry had been talking a drunkard out of treating the girl he was with like rubbish. She was clearly upset and didn’t want anything to with the man, and maybe Harry had a hero complex or maybe he hadn’t one, but he really needed to step in. He was warding this bloke off while the girl ran off to her friends, granted, the guy was probably twice his size.

Draco had just exited the bar when the burly bloke swung his fist. He hadn’t even registered what he was doing when he forced himself between the two, and found himself on the receiving end of an atomic blow to the face. He collapsed immediately.

The bartender had called up the cops, and at promptly 10:06 PM, the bloke was in the back of a police car. There was no need for an incident report, but the coppers assured them he would be spending a night or two behind bars, maybe more if he didn’t have the bail. Harry thanked them, and brought a bleeding Malfoy back to his flat.

It seemed that he was more used to nursing someone who had had their nose bloodied rather than having his nose bloodied himself. He leaned forward as Harry started collecting supplies to treat the wound. 

Harry didn’t know where to start. He still felt uncomfortable around Malfoy, he might always be, given the past and all that. But he’s willing to get past that, admittedly, not immediately. But, maybe.

“There’s a spell for this, Potter,” Malfoy spoke softly (though still startling Harry), as if his nose would bleed even more if he spoke any louder. “You should know it. 

Harry flushed. “I—I don’t use ma—” He was midway reaching over to put an ice pack on Malfoy’s nose, about arm’s length away from where Malfoy sat. Malfoy took it gratefully. “Oh, yeah. Me neither.” And that was that. After a couple minutes, Malfoy asked for the loo to wash off the dried blood. While he was gone, Harry ought that the world was probably bored, and had ought to bring Malfoy into the pub he usually performed at.

While he was gone, Harry boiled some water.

“You really didn’t have to do that, you know,” He began, startling himself. Malfoy stumbled a little, a bit taken aback. He shrugged off his cardigan and hung it on the back of a recliner. “Yes, I know,” he stated, as a matter of fact. “I needed to.” The kettle whistled.

“How so?” The steam wafted through Harry’s furrowed brow. 

“I owe you, Potter,” he sat down, sighing, and gestured at the tea rather than the can of coffee. Harry’s eyebrow twitched. “In sorts, I’m simply paying my dues.” It appeared that he refused to be less than two feet away from Harry at all times. 

Harry huffed a laugh, surprising the other bloke. “What, by taking a blow for me? I think I can do fine in a fistfight, Malfoy.”

“Besides, if you owe me because of the testimony that got you scot-free, then consider it a gift,” The issue of the life-debt went unspoken—it needn’t be spoken of. Malfoy stood up to sit at the breakfast bar, “No need to repay me.” He glanced briefly at Malfoy, silently inspecting his nose.

“As much as I want to leave it behind me, a Malfoy never owes anyone anything, it’s not done.”

“Well, consider it repaid.”

They sat there for a while, in silence. “Is your nose alright?” Without thinking, he reached over. He hadn’t realised what he was about to do, and he probably wouldn’t have, hadn’t Malfoy flinched. “Sorry,” he offered, “Is it broken?" 

“I don’t think so,” he tapped on it a little, and winced. “It’s just a bit sore. I’ll survive.” Then, they sat there for another moment, in silence once more. The question of just what had made their paths cross not just once, but twice, hung in the air.

Harry pursed his lips. This civil thing with Malfoy is, to say the least, weird.

“You perform a lot at Teddy’s, then?” He couldn’t help it, he was curious to the core. Back in their schooling years, Malfoy didn’t seem to be the type to make sense out of words like that. To be fair, there never was a proper outlet, really. Except maybe in Astronomy, when they were asked to write a roll of parchment or two on how the cosmos made them feel inside.

“It’s easy money, really,” he shrugged, casual and fleeting, like he knew that Harry was there that other night, “Some of them I’ve written ages ago, some of them came to me on the loo.” They shared a brief laugh, “What have you been doing? Other than frequenting the Next Day Term?”

“I actually work there,” he ran a hand through his voluminous hair, “Part time, for now, while I haven’t quite figured out what to do yet.” Malfoy nodded, a little or maybe not at all. Then they were quiet again.

He didn’t know what should happen from there. Should he apologise for the inconvenience and bring him home? Should he offer for Malfoy to stay the night? Maybe he should start off by offering him a clean shirt, one that didn’t have bloodstains. That’s a good start.

He opened his mouth, wanting to say, “I’ll get you a shirt,” but instead, what came out was: “I’m sorry for everything.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows furrowed together, and he frowned. He wanted to say, “What on earth are you talking about, Potter?” But instead, what came out was: “Me too.”

—

Draco left Potter’s flat at exactly 10:47 P.M.

Potter had insisted on depositing him home personally, but Draco frowned and defended that he was very well capable of bringing himself home, thank you very much. Potter pursed his lips but nodded along, offering him a clean shirt because those bloodstains might never get out.

Draco accepted the plain grey shirt to appease Potter, as the latter might not get to sleep at night knowing he hadn’t done the situation justice. “If I can’t bring you home, then let me at least get you a taxi,” and Draco accepted again, just to appease Potter.

“Would you like your T-shirt back?” He found himself asking, while approximately no taxis passed in front of Potter’s complex. “I can probably course it through Luna, once I’ve laun—“

“That wouldn’t be necessary, Malfoy,” Potter didn’t look at him while he spoke, huffing a chuckle that frosted in the cold air, “If you don’t like it, you can always turn it into a rag or something.”

“Like, Transfigure it? I told you, I don’t—"

“You don’t need magic to turn cloth into another piece of cloth, Malfoy.” A taxi stopped right in front of them. Draco frowned, “Right, of course. Sorry,” he opened the door to the backseat, “Well, this has been quite lovely, Potter. I hope it never happens again.” Potter’s mouth pressed into a line. Not quite a smile.

Draco clambered in, pausing before closing the door. “I meant it when I said I was sorry for everything.”

“I did, too.”

Then that was that.

By the time Draco got back to his corner of London, it was a bit past 11. He was knackered, indefinitely, electing not to shower and crash onto his bed instead. His sheets were white and pristine and it would be a shame to get blood on them, but he couldn’t really care any less.

Potter’s shirt was huge on him. So much so, that when he went to lie down, the neckline pooled on his chin. And it smelled distinctly of Potter’s laundry detergent, which must have been some variant of the brand Draco used. He was too tired to ponder over it too much.

When Draco fell asleep, he dreamt about trains charging at him, full-speed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so here's the second part, which is totally unedited because i'm very impatient about this whole business :-) haha, nevertheless, i hope you find this good.

Harry had had about enough. 

One would think that he’d had his fair share of nagging in the past, what with all the trouble he’d managed to attract, and his general penchant for being yelled at. It was just a bit odd now, that all this knackering is coming from his elderly landlord, rather than from Mrs. Weasley or Professor McGonagall. 

They had agreed about a year ago that Harry should have found someone to share the flat with, because his landlord can’t be having him muck around the entire thing on half the rent, boy. Which, he perfectly understood. That is, until he immediately forgot about the agreement. The year had gone and passed, and his landlord is blabbing on about Harry and his incapability to hold up his end of the deal.

“Now, you listen here,” the old man spoke in a low voice, finger pointing menacingly at Harry. “If you don’t find yourself someone to pay for the rest of this flat by the end of the week, then find yourself instead ‘nother place to stay.” He huffed with such finality that it left Harry stunned for a bit.

He supposed he should be getting on with posting something in flat listings in the paper, or something on that Internet. He hoped he hadn’t needed to at all. A year ago, he had hoped that one of his mates would have come around by now and had made up with him. This is clearly not the case—the only friends he’s got are Luna, who is already lovingly shacked up, and Chase, the bartender at the NDT, who practically lives in the bar.

He eyed his bedside clock warily. 10:30 P.M., it read, a bit annoyingly. 

Right. If he had any plans to get to the farmer’s market early tomorrow before all the good arugula is gone, then he really should get to bed. Like, right now. He plopped down onto the bed, the soft duvet and the comfort of his loungewear cushioning him. He tried to lie still for a bit, hoping for some semblance of sleep to spread across the frontal of his brain. There was none, even as half an hour passed. 

“Blimey,” he said into the air, scrubbing his face with his hands. It was another Saturday night—another sleepless Saturday night, and he didn’t even bother dilly-dallying with his other things, and went straight ahead for the coffee. He knew he had just bought a fresh pot days ago, so a trip to Teddy’s would be verily unnecessary. 

He put the kettle on the stove to boil. He scooped a few teaspoons of coffee into his mug. He put on the telly, deciding to heat up a few biscuits in the toaster as well. And when there was a distinct knock on the door, he very nearly didn’t answer.

He sat still for a bit, lowering the volume of the old Monty Python he was watching. It might’ve just come from the television, after all. But, after a brief moment of silence, the knock resounded throughout the flat once more. He went to hold the fork he was using to handle the biscuits in one hand, hiding it behind his back. He carefully walked towards the door, craning slightly to look through the peephole.

“Christ,” he huffed in relief, quickly opening the door. In stark contrast to the drab of his flat’s hallway was the bright and bubbling presence of one Luna Lovegood, bundled up in a thick coat and decidedly more than one scarf. “What on earth are you doing here at this time of night?” He laughed a bit, gesturing for her to come in. 

“Hiya, Harry. Was on my way to someplace else, s’all,” she looked around dreamily, “Thought I’d drop by and see if you’d like to join me.” She went to the counter and picked up a biscuit, made a face as she bit into it, and placed it back on the plate. Harry frowned in good nature. “You going to the NDT, then?” Which was the only probable place she’d elect to bring him to. “Not much going on there on a Saturday night, except for hipsters hooking up.”

They shared a laugh, acknowledging the odd inside joke. “No, actually. I’m going to Teddy’s. You’ve been there, I’m sure,” she took a seat on an old recliner, the exterior made up of different cloths in an attempt to patch up some holes, “Pansy couldn’t come with me, and I thought you’d like to.” 

“Have you been to one of their poetry night’s?” She asked, and Harry’s chest tightened with something undecipherable. “I can’t say I have,” Harry lied, through a pressed smile. 

“Shame, their contributors are better than the NDT lot,” a knowing look graced her features. “You want to come?” She asked, a hopeful curl in intonation towards the end of the question. Harry stared down at her. If Luna frequents Teddy’s for the poetry, could she have caught him that last time?

“It won’t be long, I just want to catch a friend’s set.” If Harry’s guess were right, then that friend would be Malfoy. He frowned a bit. 

Luna was too wonderful of a friend to turn down.

He turned the stove off, hearing the kettle simmer down from its boil. He kept the biscuits in the icebox and threw on a thick hoodie over his shirt and sweats—there wasn’t a need to dress up, it was just Teddy’s after all. It hadn’t been as cold as it had been the past week, but he couldn’t tell for sure. His nails were still painted black, albeit a bit chipped at the tips. If it would get colder as the night progressed, so be it. 

They walked in companionable silence, the muffled sound of their shoes sloshing through the snow accompanying their commute. “Hermione wrote me the other day,” Luna spoke quietly, as if someone might hear them. Of course, no one will—it was late on a Saturday night in what was considered the most elderly-friendly neighbourhood in this side of London. 

Harry’s legs stiffened a bit, a chill uncaused by the cold settling unfairly at the small of his back. “Really? What did she say?” He knew fully well that out of their group of friends, it was only Harry that Hermione refused to acknowledge. It hurt 4 years ago; it hurt now, but only fleetingly.

“Just how things are going along now that she’s an Auror,” her eyes looked frightfully pale under yellowing streetlights, “And that perhaps it might have not been her and Ron all along.” She spoke a bit faintly, her words melting into the snow. “She asked how you were doing, as well.”

The chill turned into ice, effectively stopping him in place, and in turn sending Luna into a fumbling halt. He tried not to look as if he cared so much. “Sorry,” he straightened the pull strings of his hoodie, “Oh? Have you written back?” They began walking again, a bit faster paced this time.

“I have, actually. I told her you’ve been doing well, and that you wish her the best.” They were coming close Teddy’s now, the distinct smell of brewed coffee hinting awfully alluringly to Harry. “I think that’s a good way of putting it.” He smiled at Luna quietly, and he held the door open for her. 

They agreed that Luna will line up for the drinks, and Harry would go and get them a table. He had found an empty table for four, to the left of the stage and against the window. While he waited, he half-heartedly listened to the current performance—a girl with flowing brunette hair in an emotional trance, speaking almost in an out-of-body manner about the injustices of capitalism, while a boy that shared the same hair colour played a generic beat on some bongos. It was all very quaint.

He fiddled with the small placard that was placed on every table, one side informing the customer about their latest additions to the menu, the other advertising the night’s current events. Poetry night wasn’t just poetry night, the placard read—it was a celebration of the simpler performing arts, of turning simple literature into another level of experience. It happened every Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday night, starting at 10:00 P.M., bring every artist you know! 

The whole thing gladly didn’t interfere with Harry’s shifts at the NDT, which he took up every Tuesday and Thursday. Why he thought it was convenient, he tried hard not to think about. 

“Here you are, Harry,” Luna chirped brightly, settling into the seat across from him. “I didn’t get any sugar, but if you’d like some—“

“It’s fine, Luna.” He smiled briefly at her, moving along to blow on the coffee’s surface. There was not artisan leaf pattern, just a dollop of whipped cream. “So, how’s Pansy doing?” In an instant, Luna lit up; her cheeks flushed an endearing pink, complemented by the bright blue of her eyes. The conversation filled the lull in between the performers’ sets.

“She’s doing well,” her usual dreamy state even more so, which Harry found impossible, “She’s gone visiting some friends since yesterday and won’t be home ’til tomorrow, and I miss her already.” She sighed, stirring her tea a bit dejectedly. 

“It won’t be long,” Harry smiled at her and she returned it, with big eyes and a slight toast. The next performance had begun, a boy dressed similarly to the lot down at NDT, who was pressing random keys on his keyboard. He had a slight frown that responded to the mediocre sound system down here at Teddy’s, and Harry suppressed a slight smile.

Harry began absently wondering about how Luna and Pansy came to be. Luna had told him about it, through a 5-page letter sent via Owl. It all had to do with Malfoy reaching out to her and apologising about the Skirmish at the Manor, and how Luna had been so forgiving about the whole thing (which, Luna hadn’t phrased that way, but Harry understood it as it was). They exchanged more Owls, that turned into the odd brunch, that turned into Malfoy bringing Luna along to night outs with his friends. Pansy must have found Luna’s fairly founded childish outlook of the world frighteningly endearing and then that was that. 

That had been about two years ago now, and to say that Harry was surprised that they lasted would be an understatement. But Luna was happy, so he was happy.

He could still vividly recall the first time Luna introduced Pansy to him as her girlfriend. Pansy was very shifty, very fidgety and it unnerved Harry back then. It unnerved Harry that here was someone whose loyalty was to the other side of the war, and back then he still absently reached towards the hip of his trousers, as if he still had his wand there. He didn’t back then, and he didn’t have it now. 

“Hi,” Harry had said, extending his hand for Pansy. “It’s nice to finally meet Luna’s new—“

“I’m sorry about wanting to sell you out to You Know Who,” was the first thing out of her mouth. Harry smiled warmly at her. Then, that was that. They were unspeakably civil, acquaintances due to happenstance, and they never talked about the war when all three of them were together. So, that was good.

A silent buzzing emanated from Luna’s pocket. As she brought out the muggle cellphone, the soft blue light illuminated her features in the otherwise dimly lit café. 

“Pansy,” she spoke excitedly, pointing to the phone and looking up at Harry, mouthing it’s her. Harry smiled softly. Luna’s face was suddenly flooded with alarm as he heard the faint chatter from the other end of the call. “You’re what? Tonight? I—okay, I’ll see you at home!” 

Harry waited expectantly, absently piecing together their conversation. “Go ahead, I’ll be fine.” He touched her hand encouragingly.

Luna looked on apologetically, “I’m really sorry, Harry, but she’s decided to Floo home tonight and—“

“Go, Luna,” he laughed a bit, flicking his fingers at her, “I really don’t mind. Send Pansy my love.” She dropped a kiss on his cheek as she scuffled past him, through the doors and into an alleyway, no doubt preparing to apparate. 

He paused a minute to not think, but think about breathing and solitude. He might as well enjoy the performances.

He took to wondering if Malfoy would perform tonight at all. Quickly scanning the rest of the crowd for the familiar shock of blond hair, he felt an odd disappointment settle unabashed in his jaw. He’d just wanted to know how his nose was, s’all.

The pianist wrapped up his set, giving way to some personnel clearing up the rest of the stage, leaving only a microphone and its accompanying stand. Harry’s fingers gripped around the coffee in anticipation, but was sorely let down when a bloke came in—jet black hair and smouldering hazel eyes, his phone in hand.

Why was he hoping to catch Malfoy anyway, he thought bitterly. Right. Because he wanted to know how his nose was doing, if it had healed, if it were broken after all. If the universe was so damn adamant in making them cross paths the week before, why couldn’t it have done so now? 

He resigned himself to finishing his coffee, and packing it in for the night. Once he had reached the styrofoam bottom, and licked the cup to cleanliness, he set off to go home. He paused briefly outside of Teddy’s, squinting to check the time on his old flea market watch. Luna had commented that it looked handsome on his wrist, despite being constantly covered by his long-sleeved clothes. 

It was nearing half twelve, and it appeared to Harry that a warm bath when he gets home would be much more rewarding if he walked around a bit more in the cold. So, he decided to take a longer route, which involved taking the alley beside Teddy’s and ending up in a neighbourhood that lead up to a roundabout, that finally diverged into Harry’s street. 

He was alone. When he was alone, he always began thinking about how much he hated being alone but there appeared to be no way out of it, unless he did something about it, but he really didn’t want to. A slight breeze picked up blowing his hair into a frenzy atop his glasses. Huffing, he pulled up his hood, shouldering on and regretting a bit that he just didn’t take the usual route home. 

Some trees above him swayed, some frozen into place by the cold London weather. He took a minute to appreciate the silent, barely coherent noises the neighbourhood made—some muggles watching late night telly, some dogs conversing over football scores perhaps, the quiet rustle of leaves, and the general peace that if you stopped and strained a bit, you could hear.

He could’ve settled down in a place like this, could’ve had a wife by now if things with Ginny had worked out. But things hadn’t worked out the way they intended, though it was definitely for the better. She and Dean immediately picked up where Harry left off with her, and the last he’s heard was that she’d moved in with him in the Highlands. 

An unsettling noise put him out of his reverie. Down the street, to the right, was another dark alley beside an all-day general merchandise shop. He could hear menacing laughs and cracking knuckles, and if he strained enough, maybe even some unwarranted cowering. So. It wasn’t as if he’d had a hero complex, or whatever. But, something that was decidedly not his brain brought his body to the alley, stopping to turn and look at the commotion. There were three men ganged up against one. Besides being obviously outnumbered, the poor bloke was also viciously outmuscled, his back pressed up against the brick wall. 

“Well, if it isn’t our local queer,” the tallest of the three snarled, “Come here to get off with one of your other fags, hm?” There was no reply. Harry frowned, his brows furrowing automatically. They were ganging up on him for being gay, was what he inferred. Not only was it totally close-minded, but it was also totally barbaric. Who in this day and age had the audacity to hurt someone because of their orientation?

One of the others swung at the bloke, then feinted, the smaller man shielding his face in anticipation. He made a strangled sound, one that pulled at Harry’s memories. The three laughed in unison, their horrid chuckles gurgling into one terrible sound. Harry instinctively stepped forward, fists clenching and unclenching. The three turned around to the sound of his foot crunching in the snow mixed with asphalt. His heart leapt in anticipation. 

He should maybe, definitely get this hero complex thing checked out. Sooner or later, it’s going to get him killed again. What was it with him and stepping into situations he hadn’t any business in, or involving himself with people he didn’t even know?

“Who’s there?” The tallest called out, “Have you brought some reinforcement, faggot? Another one of your queer friends?”

Harry had had about enough. “I beg your pardon—“ He rushed forward, and sacked the tallest in the jaw, sending him in a lumbering gait until he completely fell over. The adrenaline saturated his veins, his pulse daring to jump through his neck. He heard the audible click of the other man’s jaw, the contact reverberating in his hand, starting in his knuckled and vibrating into his finger tips, to his arms. He could feel his heart beat fervently against his chest. He could hear himself calculating his next move. 

The two other bullies found themselves dumbstruck at the sight of their fallen leader. Harry took their confusion to his advantage, shouldering into the swinger and shoving him against the opposite wall, bringing his entire weight into the ram. The last one caught on quick, reaching to uppercut Harry. He merely stepped out of the way, absently unaware of the cornered bloke making a run for it behind him. He belatedly noted blond hair and a baggy jumper, running off into the night.

He went ahead and grabbed the last assailant by the shoulders, kneeing him repeatedly in the groin and punching him in the mouth, for good measure. In a second, what surrounded him was an unnerving silence, occasionally punctuated by a silent groan of pain from one of the three. The adrenaline wore off quickly, and suddenly, Harry’s knuckles hurt. He raised a shaking hand to inspect the wounds, stained by his own blood or maybe the other three’s, or maybe a disgusting mixture of all of it. 

He had to catch himself, inhaling the dry air. He was so caught up with coming down from the adrenaline high that he hadn’t heard the unsheathing of something sharp, or how the tallest one had managed to get up. He did feel, though, how the knife smoothly cut into his side, withdrew, and cut in again. He let out a strangled cry, falling to his knees. 

“Queer scum,” spat the tallest one. The other two had come to their bearings and got up, going into kick him in the side and in the head. He clutched at the mangled side of his torso desperately. There was nothing but pain—nothing but pain and cold. There was the hazy feeling of spilling himself into the world, of dipping in and out of the dark. 

“Let’s go.” Called out one of them, Harry couldn’t remember. He curled up into the snow, blinded by the searing pain. He’d never felt this much in so long, and if this is how he died, it wasn’t a terribly bad way to go—he was glad to have died feeling anything, at all.

He could feel himself dying; the neurones of his brain shutting down, little by little, then in wholes. He could feel the gushing hole in the side of his body, and wondered abruptly if he had left the telly plugged in. He wondered how a quiet night in turned into this, how would Luna have felt knowing she was the last person he saw. 

Third time’s the charm, he mused. Dying because of bleeding out was awful, compared to the killing curse. With the latter, it was instantaneous—no dilly-dallying, no flourishes. This, however, Harry had to laugh. This was too much, and he seriously doubted he would find himself in King’s Cross again, given the state of things. Given the state of him.

So, perhaps, it was in that moment that Harry had accepted death. Finally. 

He opened his eyes to see a worried face, mouthing something he can’t quite make out. He felt his head cradled, lolling into someone’s arms. Warmer hands replaced his own on his side. He could see the lazy dance red and blue lights made, through squinted eyes. 

The last thing he drunk in before checking out was, “Potter—don’t.”

—

Muggle hospitals had terribly uncomfortable waiting benches, Draco mused.

He had been sat in one for the past three or four hours, occasionally drifting off until he remembered why he was here in the first place. Nurses and doctors bustled around him, carrying metal clipboards or a medicine tray. Numerous phones rang simultaneously—and they never stopped ringing. For a bit, he took to counting how many emergency patients came in wearing ripped jeans, but when one came in with a drumstick puncturing his thigh, he stopped counting and went to buy a bottled water.

A nurse came up to him, cheeks flushed and wisps of hair falling around her face. “Mr. Potter is being moved for emergency surgery, sir,” he bolted up immediately, surprising the nurse. “If you’d come and follow me.” She ushered him into a hall painted a sickening white, poorly lit by fluorescent bulbs.

There was a row of benches identical to those in the emergency room, and the nurse gestured for him to take a seat. He thanked her briefly instead of pressing for more information and settled in again, his posterior aching to be not sat on for any longer. 

Stupid Potter, he thought bitterly. Of course Potter was there, at the perfect time, at the perfect location. Would the universe have had it any other way, sending anyone else to come rescue him from a bunch of homophobic pigs? 

Stupid Potter, and his damned hero complex. Ever since Draco settled in muggle London, he had been equal parts vocal and quiet about his sexuality. He would introduce himself as, “Draco Malfoy, gay as hell, and new around here.” That is, around the right people. The right people would flush slightly at his forwardness, but shake his hand all the same, and ask from where had he moved. 

Around the wrong people, however, the reception was horrible. He and a couple of friends from Teddy’s had gone clubbing one night, in a decidedly heterosexual dive that didn’t mind people like Draco so long as they weren’t shoving it in their face. Which Draco and his friends found fair. But after one too many drinks, and the intoxicating atmosphere of the dance floor, and the glances that one of the boys was shooting at him, he had made the mistake of kissing this boy on the mouth, in front of every homophobic goon in town. 

They were chased out of the bar, with a parting threat of, “If we ever see you again, you’re fucking dead!”

And, of course, they had stayed true to their word. He had been on his way home from Teddy’s, electing not to read that night because of a hoarse voice. The alley beside the general merchandise shop cut straight into a shortcut to his flat. It was just his luck, of course, that as he turned into the alley, three men from the same night they were kicked out of the bar exited the shop, holding a plastic bag of cigarettes and matchboxes. 

He pleaded for no trouble, quickly turning into the alley and preparing to break into a sprint when the tallest one of them shoved him into the wall. He swallowed and accepted death immediately, inwardly cursing his penchant for alcohol and boys for putting him in this situation. Soft, pale snow contrasted the night sky then, and one minute there were looming mountains in front of him, the next two of them were on the floor.

He didn’t even think. He just gunned it, wet snow betraying his usual athletic speed. He looked behind him, his throat tightening at the familiar flash of mossy green and suddenly he was so upset about the whole situation. He stopped running when the noises the roughing up made were just out of earshot, clumsy fingers fumbling for his phone is his pocket. 

“There’s been—“ he couldn’t find the right words to say, his usual eloquence betraying him, “There were three men—they—attacked—“ And by some miracle, the dispatcher understood Draco’s breathy words and troubled intonation. She calmly yet pressingly asked for his location, and after a brief relay of street names, he clicked to end the call. 

Draco took a minute to collect himself, hunched over with his hands on his knees. He’s going to have to go back there, whether he liked it or not. He collected himself, breath hitching as he saw the three pigs turn the corner into his direction. He crouched down behind some trash bins, hoping to Salazar that his dark coat and the lack of a streetlamp was enough to cloak him into the night.

He huffed a grateful breath as they passed him with no issue, hearing one of them mutter an incredulous, “That fucking nutter.” An uneasy feeling washed over him then, when he saw the tallest one flip a blade back into its sheath. Once they had ran off into the night, he broke into a sprint, back to the alley. He felt as if the floor had given out, seeing Potter in the snow like that—a horrid slushy of blood and snow beside him.

This was all his bloody fault.

The coppers came a mere seconds after he did. “They—they just left. I—“ The words came out in a desperate rush, not feeling like words at all. He pointed absently behind him, shock paralysing his mouth. The policeman took a look at Potter’s body and immediately called for a paramedic, his face arranged into something practised, as if he encountered this type on a nightly basis.

He remembered pocketing Potter’s glasses, the arms splattered with a bit of blood. He remembered fervently hushing Potter’s gargled moans. He remembered feeling the way Potter was—cut up and left to bleed, but pushed it away immediately. It does not do good to dwell on the past.

He didn’t remember how they had gotten onto the ambulance, however. How the paramedic had to cut up some of Potter’s jumper and T-shirt, or how his voice sounded as he asked the assisting medic if he was going to be okay. She had tried to smile apologetically at Draco, “We’ll do our best.”

It was then that a few other medics wheeled Potter into the surgery room, and an assisting nurse lingered behind, pulling down his mask to explain and smile the same way the medic had. 

“He’s got a punctured liver, that’s why he’s gone into surgery,” he explained too calmly. Draco scrubbed his face with his hands at the nurse’s words, the latter mistaking it for worry. “We assure you that we have the best on the job, and that he’ll be fine after this. There is very little probability that he won’t get better.” The nurse nodded with finality and went into the room, the door shutting behind him.

Draco was alone again. He bit his tongue, hoping to make a smart retort about possibly removing Potter’s hero complex as well, if it were possible. But. He was no longer 14, and this was no longer something as superficial as Quidditch.

He slumped against the plastic bench, exhaustion overcoming him. In his bleary state, he unconsciously thought about the last time this had occurred, with Potter half-dead and his own life in danger. It appeared so long ago now, and was so daunting back then, how the fate of the wizarding world had rested upon the mortality of a teenager.

But, now. Here was Potter as a man, unwittingly dying on Draco’s watch. For Draco’s life.

This was all too much, he concluded. And resigned to a nap.

—

The next time Draco woke up, someone was shaking him awake. 

In a daze, he reached up to slap off the intruding hands. He was tired; physically and mentally exhausted, and he didn’t want to have to deal with disturbing twats—

“Mr. Malfoy, please do wake up.” The authority in the voice roused him from his state. He immediately straightened up, standing up as to not be rude to the doctor standing in front of him. 

“Oh, so sorry,” he ran a trembling hand through his hair, heart thumping wildly, “How’s he doing?” 

“The surgery was a success, he is now all sealed up and done.” The doctor, Dr. Fleming, beamed up at him. Draco grimaced slightly as his choice of words. “He had suffered two stab wounds in the abdomen, ultimately damaging his liver, but we fixed that right up. He’ll be out cold for a bit, but he’ll wake up in a few hours. He will need to stay a few days to be monitored, but otherwise, he’s doing okay. He will be moved to a private room, in a while. However, he hasn’t got an emergency contact listed,” Dr. Fleming frowned, passing Draco the clipboard he held. “Do you have means to reach his immediate family? Or any partners?”

Draco frowned in return. “He hasn’t got any parents or siblings, I’m afraid. And he hasn’t got any partners,” that I knew of, went unsaid. He doesn’t know anything about Potter’s family or relations. Maybe he should call Luna.

“Then you’ll have to fill this up for us,” he flipped to the page that asked for more information about the patient, and about the person filling it up, if the patient wasn’t doing so. “No rush, you can give it to the nurse’s station anytime before his discharge. He’ll be in room 32. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to write my report.” He nodded in a polite farewell, Draco nodding back and belatedly thanking him.

This was horrible, he decided, taking a left down the hall where the rooms marked with 30’s were.

**Author's Note:**

> if you've made it here, thank you so much!! the poem lines by the way are from a song entitled, "atlas:touch" by sleeping at last. beautiful song, should definitely check it out. i'm posting this while i'm running on two huge cups of coffee so it's not terribly refined, but i do hope you found it good :-)


End file.
